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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23170384">pre-flight check</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ambi_valent/pseuds/ambi_valent'>ambi_valent</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Mina [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen, Headcanon, Other, Spoilers, Talking</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 13:56:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,122</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23170384</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ambi_valent/pseuds/ambi_valent</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Five vignettes featuring the villain Clarity's crew, before a big mission.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ward &amp; Pelayo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Mina [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1665577</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>pre-flight check</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>The gang members depicted here are heavily headcanoned - simply because at the time of writing, there isn't much canon for them!!! I'm sure Malin has a much better idea of them than I do, but here's mine. </p><p>I'm still not really sure how best to do AO3 stuff, but it's easier to post here than Tumblr - maybe these would be better as 5 separate posts in a collection?</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>
    <em>~ Ward - Give Them A Hand ~</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>“They were on patrol in southern Afghanistan with the British Army, near the border with Kashmir, winning hearts and minds, all that imperialist goose-stepper crap. And they got separated from their unit.” Nehal leans forward, hands motioning to set the scene. ZaZa looks extremely skeptical and Pelayo, Pelayo is taking a break and cradling a beer, counting panels on the ceiling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ward was there - alone in an abandoned settlement, only the ghosts of Afghanistan lingering in the doorways. They knew they had to get back to their unit - but you can’t just go wandering through the backcountry there. So they stuck to the town, and then they saw it, stalking the town square, just this… huge Caspian tigress, green eyes like emeralds - big as a fist, claws like your head, an unholy creature.” Her hands raise like said claws. Nobody looks especially impressed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her eyes narrow and she settles, voice going low, “Three days and three nights, they stalked one another through the ruins of the town. A test of mettle, a battle of wills, a tool of 21st century inhumanity against the dying gasp of the wilderness, one of the last of her species. When the search party finally arrived, Ward was bleeding out, pinned under the massive weight of the huntress’s cooling body. One more ghost in Afghanistan. Ward would never be the same - the struggle claimed their innocence, and their hand.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Faaaake,” ZaZa shakes his head, “Fake!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nehal snaps back, “It </span>
  <em>
    <span>happened.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s no tigers in Afghanistan.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My mom’s from Jammu and she saw tigers.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In </span>
  <em>
    <span>India. MAYBE. </span>
  </em>
  <span>And why’s Ward in the British Army?</span>
  <em>
    <span>” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because it’s a colonialist narrative.” Nehal kicks the table, crossing her arms, “If you’re so smart, then how’d it happen?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>ZaZa sneaks a glance over to Pelayo, unsure at first but growing bolder, “Well, what I heard, I mean, what someone told me was...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leans in, beckoning Nehal in closer. She obliges. Keeping his voice low, “Ward was like… with Nocturne one night an-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nehal cuts him off, “Wait, like… </span>
  <em>
    <span>with-</span>
  </em>
  <span>with?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>ZaZa shakes his head, “I mean, I don’t know - like maybe they just fooled around, guy wouldn’t say - nobody knows but the two of them. So Hollow Ground finds out, decides she’s going to send Ward a message, sends Manalo and Deadeye over to deliver said message. And they delivered that message alright: ‘hands off.’” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What, you called </span>
  <em>
    <span>my</span>
  </em>
  <span> story fake? At least I had a theme.” Nehal flops back on the couch, “That’s just… gangster gossip.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pelayo is standing now, finishing off the last of his beer, looking down at the younger half of the crew, motioning with a finger to ZaZa, “You talk a lotta shit, you know that, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>ZaZa clicks his tongue, “Fine, man, why don’t you tell us? I know you know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The older soldier’s eyes flit from ZaZa to Nehal and back again. He shrugs his shoulders, “What? Dumb fuck got their hand stuck in a vending machine when they were like fourteen. Couldn’t get it out - whole machine flipped over, took the hand right off. Got a lot of free chips, though.” He flips his bottle into the bin and wanders off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>ZaZa calls after him, “Pelayo, you’re fucking with us, right, man? Pelayo! C’mon!” The man doesn’t even turn around. The sharpshooter looks back to Nehal, “There’s no way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nehal agrees, “I don’t think they even knew each other when they were fourteen.” She finally turns to Ward - who sits beside her on the couch, flipping channels and looking bored, digging potato chips out of the bottom of a small bag. “So? What actually happened?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Ward gingerly plucks a potato chip in their clawed-prosthetic hand, cautiously delivering it to their mouth with a crunch. They brush off the claw on their pant leg, then looks at the other two.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Old hand was trash. Got a new one.” They shrug, and go back to watching television.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <b>~ </b>
  <b>
    <em>Boris - Puppet to Puppet ~</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>He smiles when he sees you coming - Boris always has a smile for Yasmin. Clarity gets them less often. That’s why you’d come as her. “Working on something, Bo?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, y-yeah. Between jobs, I just like to check over everyone’s gear. You know. Be careful.” He scratches the back of his neck. Fidgeting, anxious. That was why you had to come. “She… She didn’t say anything to you about the next job yet, did she?” There’s a strange look on his face, one you’re not used to seeing out of the wheelman - desperation, eagerness? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Diplomatic as ever, you hop up on the workbench, letting Yasmin’s long legs hang off the side, “No. Think we still have a few more things to get in order - Pelayo needs more time to get ready.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“C-Can I help? The boss? I could help with Pelayo. Or something. If there’s anything to do, let me know.” His hand spins the fastener on a crescent wrench compulsively, there’s sweat on his brow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Booooris.” Yasmin’s voice is softer, more pleasant than your own, you know. It’d taken listening to recordings of the both of you to fully appreciate. You whisper lower, “What’s wrong? Talk to me.” It couldn’t be money - you know for a fact that Clarity’s paying him better than anything he ever saw driving for dregs like the Wolfpack.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yas. I’m fine, listen - you sure the boss doesn’t have anything?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s this about?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I… I don’t know.” His hands grasp the crescent wrench protectively, grip tightening then relaxing, “I don’t know, Yas, I just need to work. I feel useless when I’m not working with the crew.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This isn’t about Nehal is it? That was one mission - you’re still the driver.” This better not be some nonsense about protecting niches. You do </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> have time for that kind of drama.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I know, it’s not like that. I just…” He hangs his head, “Don’t tell the boss, okay? I’m okay, I just don’t want her to worry about it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally. You give him that reassuring nod he wants, “Well, out with it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know I got nerves, right? Like, I get over it, but I’m just kind of a nervous guy.” Yasmin does know this. “When I’m with the boss, especially when we’re on jobs, I don’t get the nerves so much. I know it sounds crazy - like, we’re getting shot at, and there’s cops and Rangers, whatever, all after us, I should be </span>
  <em>
    <span>losing it</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he stands up and starts to pace, his fidgeting escalating. Queasy, nausea fills your stomach. You know what’s coming.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But I just get like, zen. And we all work together, it’s like I’m just one part of the whole team, and it’s… it’s just nice. Sometimes I don’t know what to do, and then I just… do. Inspiration. I didn’t have much of a family, but I think it’s kinda like having a family. And it feels good.” His nerves calm even just talking about it, and he turns back to you. “So when we don’t work for a bit, I just get a little… y’know. I just miss it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know what I mean, Yas?” You know what he means.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You know </span>
  <em>
    <span>exactly</span>
  </em>
  <span> what he means. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because he’s describing your telepathy. He doesn’t even know it, he’s describing the subtle, tiny manipulations, tweaks you make. When you smooth out doubts, or pluck out little fears, or keep him on task, nudge him in the right direction. Most people don’t notice anything. Boris hadn’t exactly…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, Bo, I… I think I get it.” Yasmin’s finger finds its way to her mouth - you wonder if she’d been a nailbiter at some point. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A little thrill races up your spine - some part of you is flushed, flattered a little. Maybe even proud of just how gracefully you’d twisted Boris. You can’t help but think of Jake Manalo’s nest of red ribbons - what did Boris’s mind look like now? Sidestep couldn’t have done this - Clarity did it without even trying. But that is an awful, damaged part of you. You should not be listening to it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another part of you can’t help but feel guilty, horrified a little. You did this to him. He wasn’t up for this - Pelayo and Ward were professionals, used to this caliber of work. ZaZa wants to be the best and Nehal is… Nehal is special. But Boris… Boris was just a driver. He wanted beer money and steady work to cover his mods’ upkeep. To make up for it, you </span>
  <em>
    <span>had</span>
  </em>
  <span> been pushing him a little harder, using a firmer hand than with the others, if you were honest. And now he’s… what? Addicted?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And the practical part of you, well, it just worries. You’d tried to limit yourself to light touches - specifically </span>
  <em>
    <span>because</span>
  </em>
  <span> you didn’t want the crew to rely on it. Is Boris an isolated case? Were the others at risk? God, just what does his head look like in there, anyway? Clarity’d have to find a way to take a look.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And all the meanwhile, Boris is looking up at Yasmin with big eyes, waiting for an answer, a solution. What’ve you got for him? “Maybe you need a vacation?” You force a cheerful chuckle, “These jobs are a lot of stress. Sounds like adrenaline fatigue. We could all use a hobby that isn’t Clarity.” Ha. Take your own advice some time. “And that isn’t drinking.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He seems like maybe he buys that - you can’t be certain while you’re Yasmin, “I guess. I just don’t want to let her down. She’s counting on us.” Oh lord. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yasmin hops off the workbench, looking down at the balding henchman, “Forget about Clarity,” please, please. “The boss can take care of herself. Think about Boris for a little bit.” There’s an almost confused expression on his face, like this is a strange idea that hasn’t occurred to him in awhile. Just how badly had you mangled his will? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, but…” He’s worried - worried he’ll get replaced, left behind. You don’t need to read his mind for that. Maybe he should be replaced. Maybe it’d be best for him, and you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We don’t have anything on the table for the next few days, for sure. She’d have told me. And the job itself isn’t for another three weeks - that time table’s set in stone. So take a break, alright? You’re no good if you’re stressed.” He seems like maybe he almost wants to argue, so you put your foot down, like Clarity would, “I don’t want to see you hanging around here at least for this weekend. Understood?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That does the trick. “Fine, Yas, you’re right. I’ll.. Hell, maybe I’ll go on over to Joes. For old times’ sake.” You smile a little, giving him a parting wave. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just great. Look at him. Look what you did. Are you proud of yourself? You stop yourself before you come up with an unfortunately truthful answer.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>~ Nehal - Praxis Makes Perfect ~</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ampere’s Law’s the one for magnetic fields,” Mina flips through her own notes, timeframes and countermeasures checking against her personal knowledge, even as she steals a glance over at Nehal’s notebook.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not that I should be surprised at this point but,” Nehal grimaces, scratching out something, “Why do you know Maxwell Equations but you didn’t know what an aardvark was the other day?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A disinterested response, focus still on her planning, “Because I deal with a lot more magnetic fields and electrical currents than marsupials.” Unbidden, thoughts of tooling around with Julia’s mods slips to the front of her mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’re mammals.” Nehal sits back from her coursework, looking over, “And when you knew Gramsci but not bobsledding?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mina frowns, but sticks to her task, “I deal with a lot more cultural hegemony than winter sports.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fair point,” Nehal flops back, “Did you go to school for any of that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not really,” Mina catches herself, realizing what Nehal is asking. She clarifies, “It was a special case.” Finally, Nehal wins and the boss looks up from her planning, “If you’re bored, I’m sure ZaZa could use help cleaning the guns or something.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a present waiting for her - an energy caster. It was a good weapon, made sense for the kind of work Nehal would be doing on the next job. But it’s also not much different than the sort of thing Sidestep used to carry, and Mina is sure Finch would be able to have a field day untangling that mess.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>~</b>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t watch my hands, watch my core - my hips.” She throws out a hand, helping the girl back to her feet with a yank.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your hands are what </span>
  <em>
    <span>hit</span>
  </em>
  <span> me,” Nehal snorts, shaking it off and hopping back into place, throwing a few jabs at the boss - nothing approaching a threat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And by the time you saw them coming, it was too late to move.” Clarity moves slower this time, the same approach, and stopping right as she comes in for the blow, “See, my shoulder dips and I twist at the waist, because in a moment I’m going to pull in my elbow and knock you down.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nehal nods, listening attentively - better than the other student Mina had worked with. She doesn’t quite have Danny’s dexterity, but she doesn’t have that weird tightening up he does before landing a blow either. “‘Watch your feet, don’t watch your hands, watch the core.’ Some of us only have two eyes, boss,” She huffs, “You did this, trained like this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a hitch in the boss’s step - Clarity turns away, checking her hand wraps, “You don’t want to be trained like I was.” And once she’s gathered her face back up, “Next job is big leagues. No kids.” Prod her, motivate her, “You want to fight the system, then show me that you’re not just bored at school.”</span>
</p><p>
  <b>~</b>
</p><p>
  <span>The waitress takes their order, and they settle in. Nehal is quieter, waiting for the boss to lead, “Okay, quiz time, what do you see?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The surplus labour of the worker being exploited in the marketplace?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cute.” The boss doesn’t think it’s cute. Nehal glances around the diner - and Clarity cuts in sharply, “You should already know, before you even sat down, the exits, the layout of the room, a snapshot of the occupants.” The girl nods slowly. “Now, if I told you to go find a gun, where do you look?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Behind the counter.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And the second place you look?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nehal’s a little bit slower on the answer, “...cab of the white truck parked by the door.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good.” Mina relaxes just a little.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nehal leans in a little, whispering, “Clar, what’s wrong?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The boss bites the inside of her cheek just a little, “Why are you here, Nehal? Mad at your parents? UCLD not challenging enough? Bored?” The girl scowls, glaring daggers back up at her boss. “And don’t give me something glib about revolution, or the system.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The wind gets sucked out of her real quick, “What, you want me to quit?” She’s hurt - but maybe that been part of the point. This is all going to hurt, sooner or later.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mina sits a little taller - projecting height she doesn’t have, but making good use of what she does. “I want </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> to make sure you know what you’re doing. I know what LDPD has on you - petty crimes, misdemeanors. You could stop this. You’re clever, smart.” Her expression darkens, “It isn’t going to be fun - we’ve been good so far, and we’re going to have to be lucky </span>
  <em>
    <span>and</span>
  </em>
  <span> good going forward. Sooner or later, there will be </span>
  <em>
    <span>bad</span>
  </em>
  <span> days. Ask Pelayo, Ward, even ZaZa. You don’t have to be here for that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nehal is seething. Mina raises a hand. The diner is bustling - no scenes, no shouting. So she takes a moment to collect herself, or at least bring it down to a sharp whisper, “I’m here - I’m here because I’m not happy with how things are, and don’t tell me you are, either. You’re good, but you’re not perfect and I see how pissed off you are sometimes. Just… fuck off, you are </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> my mom.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She puts her hand up by her mouth, “What about you, anyway? All that shit you know, all that power you have, you could be a real hero - to like, everyone. You could be marshal, run this city - but you don’t do that because you couldn’t change anything, you’d still be part of that whole… system. You know it, I know it, why can’t I do it too?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is </span>
  <em>
    <span>different.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“How?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s hard to sort if it’s Mina or Clarity on the outside, “I do it because </span>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t have any other choice.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” It would have been nice, though, to walk away. That’s what really makes her upset - that  Nehal could have everything she couldn’t, and she’s throwing it away. “You have no idea how precious the opportunity you have is. And you won’t, not until it’s gone.” Mina can’t help but notice how old that makes her sound - some Julia Ortega nonsense there. “But you’re right, I’m not your mother. And I do need you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Clar.” Nehal frowns, “...then why’d you say anything?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She lifts a hand haplessly, searching the ceiling for an answer that isn’t admitting she cares about someone, “Just trying to be the hero, I guess.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nehal snorts a little, “So, what’s that make me, your sidekick?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I really hate that word.” </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <b>~ </b>
  <b>
    <em>ZaZa - On My Block ~</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>It isn’t discrete. It isn’t professional. It’s a statement, it’s ego.  It’s a cherry red corvette tearing down Reservoir Street, taking a sharp turn and slowing as it pulls into a neighborhood, slowing to a crawl. Street game at the end of the cul de sac stops play, kids turn and shield their eyes from the glare to take a long look at that gleaming ride pulling into the driveway of an old green one-story pre-quake residence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a whistle from the gawkers, “Here comes money.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh shit, somebody got lost.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Old man’s got a guest with </span>
  <em>
    <span>drip</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The engine cuts, the music stops and he takes his time stepping out. Showing off for neighborhood kids. It’s petty as fuck but what’s the point of getting paid if you can’t be petty about it. He takes a moment to straighten his cuffs, nice suit, no tie, flashy look but not too loud, that kind that says ‘this is every damn day for me.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know that ain’t ZaZa.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Been a minute. That ain’t him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Didn’t your brother used to run with him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Kinda.” A bolder onlooker calls out, “‘ey, man! You lost or something?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He waves off the kids, “I dunno, you supposed to be in school or something? Damn.” It’s an act, being irritated, but it gives him an excuse to slow his walk up to the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, oh </span>
  <em>
    <span>shit</span>
  </em>
  <span>, it </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“ZaZa, ZaZaaaa, come on, man, what’s good?!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He twists his old key in the lock and ducks through the door, and immediately wishes he hadn’t. Pictures all on the wall. Himself, at graduation, when wearing his JROTC uniform and that shitty ass high fade. Old pictures of a woman he can hardly remember - and doesn’t want to. Pictures of his old man, mostly in uniform, on deployment, a wedding photo. A newer picture, too, of Dad with a grave-looking Asian dude - with fancy ass mods on his arms, subtle but easy to spot when you’re really looking. Not a new picture, he realizes - he just recognizes the face now, from Clarity’s briefings. Wei Chen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Xavier, you damn near gave me a heart attack. Can’t just go walking into other folks’ houses.” Captain Wesley Alexander, USAF (RET). Seen better days, still got his hair short.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Xavier catches himself staring a little too long, then rubs the back of his neck, “Didn’t think it was ‘other folks’, my bad. You should change the locks.” He plays it cool, because he’s cool now. He’s not a dumb kid. He looks back to the picture. “This the Marshal? Never noticed before.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. Used to come to my groups. Probably not supposed to tell you that.” But dad’s a little proud is all. His service mattered to him, and Xavier telling Uncle Sam to fuck off had always been a sore spot. “You look good. Like the suit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a nod from Xavier, he leans in for a quick hug, a pat on the back. Too light for the time it’s been. “Missed you, old man. You still letting Terrence cut that hair. There’s gotta be a better way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Caught off guard by the hug, he shakes his head, a big grin, “VA doesn’t cover barbers and Terrence ain’t raised his prices since the 90s. Come on, sit down.” Father leads son on back to the kitchen table. Dodgers playing on that same boxy old TV.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Place hasn’t changed since high school.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Know you didn’t think so, but it’s a good house.” He frowns, picking up the beer that had been interrupted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wasn’t the house that was the problem, dad.” ZaZa shakes his head, “You ever think about moving?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not gonna move.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can help out, I mean, I got a new job, no reason you gotta grow old being cooped up here at the end of the old block.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not about the money. I like it here. I like cooped up.” He lifted his chin up, “New job? Better not be anything stupid. Don’t get why you couldn’t have just stuck with the army -”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“‘Cause I like my feet and I’m not about to listen to some redneck from Jawja bitch at me in bootcamp, damn.” He snaps a little, goes for a low blow, and regrets it at once. His dad shifts a leg, moves his prosthetic foot on impulse. “It’s not for me. And don’t worry. It’s just another private security thing. Like the last one, but better. Got a good team of folks and everything. Keep it professional.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wesley knows the lie but not how to cut through it, so he shakes his head and looks back to the baseball game. “Keep your head on straight, don’t shoot yourself in the foot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Good advice. “Relax, it’s not Afghanistan. We hardly even leave the city, and my boss, she’s good at looking out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lady boss? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Definitely</span>
  </em>
  <span> don’t let a woman talk you into anything stupid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Xavier snorts. “It’s 2020, old man. Pretty sure she’s seen more action than you ever did.” The point’s taken though. Clarity was solid, seemed solid. But the politics thing… People like that thought they could change the world, wanted to take on the world. Hard to see that going well. “Maybe she already did.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Xavier Alexander, don’t you go getting twisted over a woman and a job that pays too much.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The money’s good, the tech is fun. Working with the others is good, even that tight-ass Pelayo. Fucking over the government, the military, that felt good too - they still owe him, big time. The only problem is that - that feeling that maybe it’s too much for him. Maybe his dad had a point. Is that why he’d come on over? Get grounded, reassess.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks back over at the picture wall, at Marshal Steel’s uncovered face, like a challenge. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And the answer is no. Fuck that. He’s the best shooter on the West Coast. Deadeye had her boosts but he’s all homegrown and better believe he’s every bit as good. Better even. Fuck them Rangers, too.  Clarity had a plan, she always had a plan, and he’s more than good enough to keep up. Finish this job, and that’d be it, folks would know - ZaZa is a legend in our time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I got it, Dad. I’m good. Your son’s the best in the business.” He gets up and heads to the fridge, grabbing one of the old man’s beers, “‘A job that pays too much.’ Tch, you mean a job that pays me what I’m worth.  Listen to you, that’s why your ass still stuck in this musty house.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Musty - boy, sit down. I’ll still kick your ass with my good foot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Easy, easy, don’t hurt yourself.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Kid coming over and interrupting my afternoon. Just watch the damn ballgame.” </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>~ Pelayo - Mission: Impossible ~</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m Lieutenant Colonel Edgar Ramirez, United States Air Force.” He clears his throat, and puts on his best Mid-Western accent. “Lieutenant Colonel Edgar Ramirez, United States Air Force.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Over on the couch, ZaZa snickers. Ward shoots a thumbs up. Nehal has headphones in, studying intensely - doesn’t react at all. Pelayo shakes his head and looks over to Clarity - hunched over a laptop, clicking through files. She’s distracted, still giving instructions, “Second one was getting there. Mix it up. Use different words, don’t just worry about the sound. You have to like, create this person in your mind. You’ve met people like him, just be like them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He rolls his eyes, “Yeah, you do this shit a lot?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t look up, “I’m doing it right now.” Of course she is. The boss was like that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look. You’re the boss, I like your plans. Most of the time.” Ward looks a little skeptical of Pelayo, “Okay, some of the time, I like your plans. But they’re never going to believe that I’m…” He looks down at the folder in front of him, reading aloud, “...Lieutenant Colonel Edgar Ramirez.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looks up from the laptop and spins around on the swivel chair to face him, “Why not, none of them will know Ramirez. You don’t have to be him, exactly - you just have to be what they think a Lieutenant Colonel Edgar Ramirez would maybe be like.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Never done shit like this, I’m a gun for hire, not an actor.” He slaps down the folder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smirks, “What you are, Hector Pelayo, is a Hispanic male somewhere between the ages of thirty and sixty, between 5’8” and 6’4” in height, dark hair, average build, clean shaven, with visible cybernetic modifications, and no visible tattoos - not with a little makeup anyway. In other words, you’re...” The boss gestures, coaxing it out of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sits up straight, trying to get a little more control, “Lieutenant Colonel Edgar Ramirez, US Air Force. I gotta shave for this shit too? Not getting paid enough.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My man, that’s what I’m always saying.” ZaZa chuckles to himself, flipping channels on the television.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ay, fuck you, you don’t even have to go inside.” Pelayo curses, “I want half of his share too.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The money’ll be enough,” Clarity pushes back. “I’ve never been cheap with you, have I? Have I?” It isn’t about the money at this point, though. This job is different. They all know.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His leg bounces in his seat, shaking his head, “S’good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I take him at the hotel. We’ll get the biometrics, and the code then. My specialist gets you the contact lenses and fingerprint gloves at noon. That’s your go time. You hit the base and from there, you’re…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pelayo, nodding along, sighs, “Edgar Ramirez. I can’t believe you’re actually doing this.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clarity sits on the edge of the table, scooping up the folder thoughtfully, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>We’re</span>
  </em>
  <span> actually doing this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I must be insane, that’s the only answer. Or maybe you fucked with my head.” Pelayo puts his head in his hands. He doesn’t see the frown creep across Clarity’s face. “Ward, are we insane?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They simply nod, watching TV with ZaZa now, “Absolutely.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>ZaZa follows up, “Insanely well-paid, and with bragging rights.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> no bragging rights, pendejo, you can’t brag about seizing a United States Air Force base.” He stands up and begins to pace, “Forget the Guardians, forget the Rangers - Hollow Ground’ll turn you in just to avoid having that kind of heat in her city. That sort of thing gets you put on a list with the DoD, fuck, with the Special Directive.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>ZaZa’s confidence wanes a little, “..what's a Special Directive?” Ward shifts their weight, a little less amused. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clarity’s trying not to smile now. That’s the whole point after all. Cookie for Pelayo. “Let me worry about the Special Directive. It’s my heat, and that’s why you get the masks. It’s just Clarity and her henchmen.” It’s all a show, after all, this is a performance piece. Like the gala, just… scaled up. Massively scaled up. “Now relax. Who are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pelayo goes for it again, “Edgar Ramirez, lieutenant colonel. Air Force.” </span>
</p><p>
  <b>~</b>
</p><p>
  <span>Ward leans and straightens the tie. They raise up their good hand, brushing over Pelayo’s freshly smooth shaven cheek, mumbling low, “Doesn’t look half bad.” Hector leans into their touch, searching for any sort of reassurance. Ward reaches over and hands him the jacket, helping finish putting the uniform together. “Well?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Little tight.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re just stiff.” Ward’s prosthetic hand clicks on the desk, looking over the ‘Lieutenant Colonel.’ “Boss did a good job on the makeup - can hardly tell what an ugly fucker you were.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pelayo blinks, then squints, trying to get used to the contact lenses, and the face in the mirror, “Ay, thought you liked my scars.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do,” Ward admits.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hector frowns, trying on the glasses Clarity had offered him. Taking them on, taking them off. Sometimes props help, she said.  “Ward, what are we doing?” The glasses don’t help. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s part of the plan. You want out?” It’s hard to read Ward’s expression, even after all these years. “Not like you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dunno, this whole mission is fucked. Jacking trucks, heists, playing tag with cops, we do that.” He starts to reach up to rub his stubble - but it’s been shaved, and he’s afraid to touch his face with this makeup. “Esta es la Mission: Impossible mierda. Terrorista mierda. Clarity’s gonna get us fuckin’ killed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t think so.” Ward looks out the hotel window, watching the cars below, reflecting. “Maybe herself. Not us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?” Hector sits on the edge of the bed, watching Ward watching cars.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. She thinks she’s a hero, like a Ranger or something. You ever work for anyone like that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...no.” Ward makes a little bit of sense. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Me either.” They smirk. “Besides, she’s got a plan, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. Right.” Hector shakes his head. He stands up and checks his tie again, straightening the bars on his breast. “We’re on the clock now. You should get </span>
  <em>
    <span>your</span>
  </em>
  <span> suit on.” Hard not to be a little jealous. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ward puts a hand on Hector’s shoulder and locks eyes. Looking through the contacts is strange for the both of them. They lean in for their kiss and one last reassurance, “Good luck, you ugly fucker.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His nerves unwind, Pelayo finally, at last, relaxing just a little, “Yeah. Don’t get shot this time, imbécil.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ward simply grunts and grins wide.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<span>[</span>
  <em>
    <span>Clarity and the gang WILL return in: </span>
  </em>
  <b>MISSILE COMMAND</b>
  <span>]</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>As usual, if you actually read through this, I'm also @sosleepless (general) or @ambistep (FHR stuff) on tumblr. sorry for not proofreading!!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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